


Stay

by MostGeckcellent



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras Has Feelings, M/M, Police Brutality, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Feuilly, Violence, enjolras loves his friends, if that is going to bother you do not read, no I'm serious Enjolras is murdered by cops in chapter one, no one stays dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostGeckcellent/pseuds/MostGeckcellent
Summary: Enjolras died at a protest gone wrong. And then he woke up. And then he met an infuriating immortal who calls himself R, and started on a trip that changed his life.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay a few notes. 
> 
> 1 - please read the tags. If you got this far and didn't read the tags, read them. I don't think the violence is graphic enough to merit the tag, but it is still present. Also, there is police brutality. Enjolras gets killed by cops. It's in the first chapter, and technically Grantaire also gets shot by cops but he shakes it off old-guard style so it barely registers. Just please be warned, and don't read if this will upset you. 
> 
> 2 - this is actually the first fic I ever started to write! I left it, wrote some other stuff, and finally came back to it. It is only finished thanks to KikiJ, who is the love of my life and a constant source of inspiration, so you know. Thanks <3 
> 
> That's it for now I think. Enjoy!

Everything had been planned so carefully. Sure, it was a bigger crowd than had ever turned up to one of Enjolras’ protests, and sure, tensions seemed to be particularly high, but he had been careful. All the permits were obtained (though it rankled to do so - the point of protest was to be disruptive, what good was a perfectly state sanctioned disruption?), his lieutenants assigned their roles, media selectively invited. The organizers wore brightly coloured safety vests to make sure people knew who to go to, the rules had been set for safe conduct, little slips of paper with the phone number of the ABC’s lawyer and a list of one’s rights upon arrest distributed. 

No one had expected tens of thousands of people to turn up, though - least of all the police, who Enjolras could see were becoming uneasy, hands straying a little too close to their batons for his comfort. The protesters, too, were becoming riled up. Enjolras had yet to speak himself, but Jehan had given the introduction, and the guidelines, and Bahorel and Eponine had spoken too. Enjolras was up soon, he was following Senator Lamarque, and he knew his own speech, at least the way he had planned it, wasn’t going to calm the crowd any. Perhaps he could add an interlude? Music, or a chant? 

Before he could make a solid decision, though, he was called up to the makeshift stage, the microphone handed off to him. 

“Thank you, Senator Lamarque,” Enjolras thanked her as she exited the stage, “for your words of support.” He carried on, and all those hours of practice paid off. His hands only shook the smallest amount at the podium, and his voice carried with confidence and charisma. The crowd cheered and booed in all the right moments, and Enjolras felt himself bolstered, almost shouting into the mic. The police were shuffling, but he barely registered it. He saw movement in the crowd, and almost in slow motion, it all began to fall apart. 

One protester, perhaps riled a little too far, perhaps planted for this very purpose, shouted one of their chants out loud and threw a rock in the direction of the police officers. “Please,” he interrupted his own speech, “Please, everyone remain calm, this is a non-violent protest, we want everyone to stay safe -” But it was too late. Everyone was shouting, and the police officers were drawing patons and pepper spray, advancing on the crowd. Enjolras refused to budge from the stage; he continued shouting for calm, for retreat. He spotted Joly at the medical tent, looking pale and tense but determined not to be moved, and he spotted Bahorel and Jehan at the front of the fray, trying to get vulnerable people out as quickly as possible. Marius was assisting the Senator, making sure she made it to her car, before running back in, probably searching for Cosette and Eponine. And, sure enough, there was Bossuet, heading for Enjolras’ position on the stage. 

“Come on,” he heard Bossuet urge. “Enjolras, it’s over, there’s no controlling this - you’re exposed up there, at least get down from that damn stage, put the mic away -” 

“I planned this,” Enjolras insisted ferociously. “I have to see it through, I have to do what I can to help. They’ll use this to try to discredit us.” 

“We knew this was a possibility,” Bossuet reminded him. “When we first got wind this might end up bigger, we planned for this, and part of it was keeping you safe. You know Joly will fret you and him both into an early grave over this, come on,” he pleaded. “Don’t be stupid.” 

“Go stay with Joly,” Enjolras ordered, ignoring him. “He’ll need backup at medical. I’ve got this, Bossuet.” He paused long enough to clasp Bossuet’s hands between his own. “Trust me.” 

Bossuet paused. “With my life,” he said eventually. “Just not your own. Be careful. Please.” 

He retreated, though, returning to Joly’s side. Enjolras turned his attention back to the crowd. It was chaos out there; the noise and the screaming and the thuds of rubber bullets echoing in Enjolras’ ears. He knew Bossuet was right, that there was no returning this to a peaceful situation, but he still had a responsibility to stay and see it through. He scanned the crowd, searching for his friends, trying to keep track of them all. 

He saw cops begin to push through the crowd toward the stage, and Enjolras froze for a moment. Fight or flee? He would be of more use if he wasn’t arrested, in the end, and there was no salvaging this. So he turned on his heel and fled the stage, running. A glance over his shoulder told him the pigs were in pursuit, and drawing weapons. 

The stage was far enough from the worst of the fighting that he escaped the fray, ducking into a side alley. The cops followed, though, eager to catch the ringleader. Enjolras ran, grateful to Bahorel for being the one to tell him to take up a hobby to ‘release all that barely-pent-up aggression’, kick-starting Enjolras’ new-ish habit of going for long runs instead of picking every fight. Still, running only got him so far - the alley ended in a dead end. He was cornered. He backed against the wall, searching for any way out, knowing there wasn’t one. His heart was in his throat - he knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t be walking away from this all in one piece. 

The four cops who had chased him to this point caught up, then, and the sight of guns aimed at him did nothing to reassure Enjolras. Still, he spat at their feet, and glared fiercely at them. 

“He’s the leader,” one of them announced. “We ought to just shoot you here, boy.” The vitriol in the face of the officer was unmistakable. 

“Shoot me, then,” Enjolras challenged, and he spread his arms, red jacket open to bare his chest. 

The officers nearly faltered at that. In the moment that Enjolras accepted his own, very potentially imminent death, he was resplendent, almost invulnerable. In this dirty alleyway, Enjolras alone seemed untouched by the violence of the day. 

When Enjolras was pierced by eight bullets, he died alone, pinned to the wall for a moment before he fell. 

  
  
  


5430 miles away, Grantaire woke with a start, patting his chest for the eight bullet holes. Just a dream - just a dream. “So,” he murmured. “There’s another one.” 


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a while since the whole team had gathered. Not since their last job, anyway, each of them lying low for a while on their own. Still, all of them had the dreams, and all of them knew what it meant. Grantaire received a phone call from Combeferre, first. He fumbled with his flip phone (he was always the slowest to catch up with technology), and answered the call. “So you saw him too.” 

“Hello, Grantaire,” a smooth voice answered, tone betraying amusement only to someone who knew him well. “It has been a while, hasn’t it? It’s lovely to hear from you too, I hope you’re well.” 

“I’m too old for pleasantries, Combeferre,” Grantaire grumbled good-naturedly. “But yes, fine, if you insist, I’m as fine as ever, wish Courfeyrac my best, all of that. Now, the boy. He sounded American, I think.” Grantaire’s nose wrinkled a little. “I don’t want to go to America.” 

“Well, it seems you’ll have to, doesn’t it,” Combeferre said, dry. “I agree, American. I saw the police uniforms, I think we can narrow it down to Chicago.” 

“Nice and specific for once, that’s helpful.” 

“Yes. Courfeyrac and I both got glimpses of a riot. We haven’t been able to reach Feuilly yet, but we’ll keep trying.” 

“Good.” Grantaire sighed. “Well, we have a safe house somewhere in America, don’t we?”

“If he’s in legal trouble, we might want to get him out of the country,” Combeferre suggested. “Montreal. It’s a long drive from Chicago, but safe. I’ll start forging documents. And I’ll try to have something ready for the new recruit, too, see if I can’t find some photos of him online.” 

“Thank the gods one of us knows how to use the internet.” Grantaire wasn’t sure what they’d do without Combeferre, honestly. Everything changed so quickly these days. “Let me know if you reach Feuilly.”

“Yeah, will do. And in the meantime?”

“We can meet in Chicago in two days' time,” Grantaire decided. He didn’t want to leave the new kid alone, probably freaked out, certainly in trouble, for any longer than they needed to, but it still took time to get places. “I’ll go now, do some recon, figure out what we need to do to get the kid out and safe. If there were cops involved, I’m sure it’ll get complicated. We’ll break him out, get across the border, recoup in Montreal.”

There was a noise of assent from Combeferre. “Alright. Good luck, R.”

Grantaire hung up. He sighed again, and reached for his bottle, taking a long swig before gathering up the few things he would need to take with him. Some clothes, a couple of extra papers and passports, some money. He swung his ragged backpack over one shoulder and made his way out, stepping onto the crowded streets of Athens. One more phone call, and he had a flight to Germany arranged, with a smuggler who specialized in helping move immigrants from Greece to Western Europe. It wasn’t hard, not in these parts - the right call to the right cafe owner, 5000 euros, and a clandestine meeting later, he was boarding a helicopter, and setting down in Germany that evening. To sail from Hamburg to New York would take 11 days, which was about 9 too many, but he was able to get a flight into Mexico, and he was able to cross the border on foot from there. From Texas, it wasn’t difficult to hire a private flight to Chicago. Not a direct route, by any means, but one that avoided cameras and border security, and therefore surveillance, and therefore evidence that he exists. 

“Fucking America,” he muttered as he looked out the window of the little plane. It was unnecessarily large. On any other continent, it was a matter of the right plane, the right pilot. It was easy. Hell, most places you could just sneak onto a train if you really needed to. But America was a full ocean away, and so large you could fit half of Europe inside it, and had shit public transit besides all of that. 

Landing in Chicago was a relief. Grantaire paid his pilot, and then made his way downtown. He could see where the riot had happened. It was still a mess out there, with broken bottles, used rubber bullets, and old tear gas canisters littering the ground. A handful of people in orange jumpsuits, presumably doing community service, were cleaning it up slowly but surely, while their supervisor smoked in the distance. 

Grantaire continued past the wreckage, and checked his messages. Nothing from Combeferre, Courfeyrac or Feuilly yet, but he had managed to arrive a day in advance of what they had planned. What he needed was to know what had happened to the man from his dreams. The news would be a good place to start. He stepped into a library, turned on a computer, and painstakingly googled for news of the riot. A dozen arrests, three in the hospital, one casualty. A Julien Enjolras, apparently. The photo was an old mugshot; apparently he was a habitual disturber of the peace, organizer of political rallies and riots and protests, head of a student group at the University of Chicago called ‘Les Amis de l’ABC’. Grantaire enjoyed the pun, but the rest of it - well, clearly it wasn’t doing much good, was it. 

Grantaire skimmed the rest of the article. It didn’t say what had happened to the body, so the next step was to check the club’s website. There was a brief article, a memorial for Enjolras, at the top of the site, which Grantaire read through quickly, and it ended in a mention saying the funeral could not be held yet, as the body was still being withheld from them by the police department, pending the coroner’s report. Once the investigation was completed, the body would be returned, and they would announce the funeral date. 

If Enjolras’ club was undertaking those sorts of preparations, Grantaire concluded, there probably wasn’t any family to worry about. That was always for the best, in these sorts of situations. 

Grantaire took note of the group’s meeting place and time, and then closed the tabs, and left the library. He was on his way to the police station when his phone rang. 

“Any updates?” he asked as he accepted the call. 

“Courfeyrac found Feuilly; she’s apparently deep in a labour situation in Eastern Europe. But we’re all on track to meet you in Chicago,” Combeferre assured Grantaire.

“Good. Our new recruit is still being held by the cops - not sure if he’s back on his feet yet or still healing, you know the first time always takes the longest.” Grantaire frowned. “I might have to rush things a little - I was hoping he’d have been returned to the family by the time I got here, last thing we need is American cops learning our secret.” 

“Better than the military,” Combeferre pointed out, but Grantaire could tell he agreed. “We can meet you in Montreal. Courfeyrac has a contact in Michigan - if you can get to Lake Superior yourselves, you can get a boat to Canada, land in Terrace Bay, and drive to Montreal.” 

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed. “Yeah, okay. Send me the contact information asap, and I’ll see you all in Montreal, hopefully with the Blond Boy Wonder in tow. Did you look him up, by the way? He’s an activist,” Grantaire scoffed. 

“He’ll fit right in,” Combeferre pointed out mildly. 

“Yeah, Feuilly will love him,” Grantaire conceded. “Right. Well. Montreal, then.” 

That night, Grantaire looked up at the main police station. Some additional research had told him this was where the coroner’s office would be, and hopefully, Enjolras. Grantaire had managed to obtain the uniform shirt and access pass of one of the night cleaners, and he strolled in without an issue, pushing a cart of cleaning supplies. His cap pulled low to protect him from the cameras in the station, Grantaire made his way toward the coroner’s office, and approached the doors with a glance on either side of him to make sure no one was there to question him. 

The door was locked, of course, but it was a matter of moments to pick the lock and have the door swing open. There were a few cots, all empty for the night, and trays of coroner’s tools next to them under large lights. Grantaire winced; he hoped Enjolras hadn’t woken during his autopsy. At the back of the room, coolers for keeping the bodies lined the wall. Grantaire opened them one by one, looking for the right body - tall, dark skin, dyed blond hair, and a look of righteousness Grantaire half expected would carry over even into death. Still, he reached the last of them with no sign of Enjolras. It had been over 24 hours since Enjolras had died; he’d known there was a good chance he’d woken already, but he’d hoped otherwise. Now he had the task of finding out where he had been taken. 

“Hang in there,” he muttered, as if Enjolras could hear. “I’m coming.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for warnings

Enjolras woke slowly, painfully. He had been so sure he was dead - had he somehow survived? Had they been rubber bullets after all? But then, odds of surviving being shot eight times at such close range, even by rubber bullets, were slim. He opened his eyes - he was in a cell. A glance told him there was a camera pointed right at him. He checked himself over, too - his chest was bandaged, but a peek beneath them showed eight puckered scars, as if he’d been shot months ago, not hours. More alarming, though, was the scar on his stomach - as if he’d been cut open.  _ Autopsy scars, _ something in his head whispered. If he’d been killed, there would have been an autopsy, an exam. So, he’d been killed, cut open, and now he was - what, recovered and in a cell? How did any of that make sense? 

The phone number he’d had written on his arm for his lawyer had been scrubbed off, as had, presumably, the blood. Enjolras himself hadn’t actually broken any laws, for once, unless they fabricated some resisting arrest charge, which he supposed was likely enough. He was owed a phone call, in any case, and a lawyer. There was a bench in the holding cell, and not another person in sight, so for now, he sat to wait. He had no distraction from his circling thoughts. 

He was there for half an hour, maybe - it was hard to tell time, with nothing to do but think - before anyone came for him. Enjolras jumped to his feet when he heard them approach. 

“Am I under arrest?” he asked, before they could speak. 

He had a moment to observe the people standing outside his cell. Two uniformed officers, unsurprising. Accompanying them, though, was someone in a sharply pressed military outfit - national guard, probably - and a man in a nondescript suit. Enjolras felt a flash of fear, and wondered what in the hell he’d done to deserve an entourage like this. 

It was the suit who addressed Enjolras first. “You are being transferred to another facility,” he said, “for your own safety, while we conduct an investigation into the events of the riot on June sixth.” 

“I want to talk to a lawyer.” If he wasn’t under arrest, then he couldn’t be held longer than 24 hours. Enjolras wasn’t getting the impression that they were going to abide by the law, though, not in this instance. 

“A lawyer may be provided to you upon arrival at the secure facility.” 

Enjolras didn’t know if the suit was telling the truth. Something told him there was more going on here. “I want to talk to a lawyer before any further steps are taken,” he countered. “As is my right.” 

The suit just shook his head, and held a whispered conference with the National Guardsman. Enjolras couldn’t make out what they were saying, but a moment later, the pair of them nodded to each other and walked away, leaving Enjolras under the guard of the two uniformed officers. Enjolras collapsed back onto the bench, heart heavy. He wondered what was happening outside, if his friends were undergoing similar treatment, or if they had made it out. If they were worried about him, or - well, or if everyone thought he was dead. 

Because he should be, shouldn’t he? There was no way he should have survived what had happened. He tried to rationalize it away; they had missed his vital organs, he had gotten very lucky, the scar down his middle was just from surgery, maybe, to remove the bullets. None of it explained how he had healed so quickly - unless more time had passed than he realized? How long had he been kept under sedation? 

He was panicking. He knew he was panicking, and he did his best to remember what Joly always said - slow, deep breaths. He took a few deep breaths, and looked at the scars again. It didn’t make any sense, but right now, he had to focus on what he could actually control. If he had been held long enough for those to heal, chances were good that everyone thought he was dead. There wasn’t much he could do about either of those things, though. He was being moved to another facility, presumably soon. He needed a lawyer, and he needed to stay where he was if possible. He took another deep breath, and watched the officers for a moment. They were acting strange - they kept glancing in his direction, and then away again, as if something about him unsettled them. They were whispering, too, once again too quiet for Enjolras to hear. 

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me where I’m being moved to?” he asked them, though he doubted it would be so easy. 

One of the officers jumped, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to speak, and the other elbowed him. “Shut up in there,” the second one barked at him. 

Enjolras frowned. “I want my phone call,” he tried. This time, no one answered him. 

“I have a right to a phone call and a lawyer,” he persisted. Still nothing. 

“Hey! Are you listening?”

“I said, shut up in there!” The officer brought his baton down on the bars, and Enjolras fell quiet, though he was still scowling. He drew his knees up to his chest, and settled in for a long, boring wait. 

The officers switched out every now and then, presumably at the shift changes. Enjolras tried to get information from them where he could, but none of them would talk to him. It was impossible to know what time it was, since the lighting never changed and there weren’t any windows, but Enjolras suspected he had been awake nearly twelve hours when he heard a thud from somewhere down the hall. 

“The hell was that,” one of the uniformed officers muttered to the other. 

“Should we check..?” The second one glanced at Enjolras, still sitting on the bench in his cell, watching them as always. 

“Nah, chief’ll have our hides if something happens to this one and we’re away.” The first one gestures at Enjolras in the cell. “Better call it in, though, be on the safe side.” 

The second officer picked up his radio, but there was a whistle in the air, a quiet noise, and then a thud as he collapsed to the ground. The first officer shouted, and grabbed his own radio, but he, too, was dispatched before he could make a sound. 

“Amateurs,” Enjolras heard a voice, and then he saw a man round the corner, a cap hiding half of his face. He plucked the key from the officer’s belt, and opened Enjolras’ cell. “Well? You coming?”

“Who the hell are you?” Enjolras demanded, staring at him. “What’s going on? Did you - did you kill them?”

“What? No,” he shook his head. “Horse tranqs,” he explained. “We don’t have time for this, kid, an alarm will be raised sooner or later.” 

“I’m not a kid-” Enjolras started, but he knew the man was right. “Who are you?” he asked again, though he stood and made for the door. 

“You can call me R,” he introduced himself. “This way, c’mon.” 

R - Enjolras didn’t think a letter was much of a name - led him down the hall and into a service hallway. He shot out cameras as they went, and soon Enjolras heard the siren of an alarm go off. 

“Better run,” the stranger grinned at him, before grabbing Enjolras’ wrist and taking off. 

Enjolras followed, sprinting down the halls after his rescuer. He froze as he heard gunshots, and saw two officers come around the corner. R was hit, and Enjolras felt the blood on his skin as he shouted out loud, “No!”

R didn’t seem too bothered, though. He shook himself, and carried on, drawing a gun from his own hip and shooting back. The officers retreated, radioing desperately for backup, and R pushed through. “Hurry up!” 

Outside the police station, there was a motorbike waiting. “Up you get.” R seated himself, and helped Enjolras up behind him, before kicking the bike into gear and taking off into the night - and it was night, Enjolras could see now. Nearly morning, probably. The man picked up a phone and started dialling. 

“You - eyes on the road!” Enjolras protested, clutching onto him for dear life. “You can’t be on the phone and drive!” The man was already driving like a maniac, Enjolras didn’t want to survive the police only to die in an accident. 

“Relax, kid,” R laughed, as if all of this had been nothing. “We’ll be fine. You already know that.” 

Enjolras did not know, thank you very much, and he clung harder to the man. He heard R say something, addressing someone named Combeferre, asking him to make sure there was no leftover footage at the station. 

Before long, the sirens of chasing police cars were long in the distance, and there was only open road ahead. “R?” Enjolras addressed the man in front of him, though he nearly had to shout to do it. “Where are you taking me?” Had he escaped from the police only to land in worse danger? 

“I’m getting you somewhere safe,” R turned his head to shout back to Enjolras. “We have a long drive tonight - when did you get some sleep last?”

“I don’t know - I must have been asleep for months, though, before - well, before today.” It was troubling, not knowing. 

“Months? Nah, that’s not possible,” the man shook his head. “Hang on.” He parked the bike at the side of the road. “We don’t have long - we really need to keep moving, but I also don’t want you throwing yourself off this bike trying to escape if you decide you don’t trust me, so.” He stuck out a hand to Enjolras. “My name is Grantaire, your name is Enjolras. You were shot eight times by the police after a riot about.. 52 hours ago now, I’d say. You died, you came back, you were probably going to be shipped off to some shady military place to be studied. There are a few of us like you - immortal. I’m one, there are currently three others. We have a safe house in Montreal, you’ll meet them all there. We good?”

Enjolras stared. He blinked at the man, R - Grantaire, apparently - and then blinked again. “That’s not possible. You’re - insane, or something, and I have to find my friends. Thank you for saving me, but - I think this is where we part ways.” He turned around to walk back down the road. Immortal? No. No way. And he couldn’t just run off to fucking Canada. 

He heard footsteps following him on the gravel. “You’ll just get yourself arrested again,” Grantaire pointed out. 

“I can take care of myself.” 

“I can see that.” 

He was still following. Enjolras started to run. 

Enjolras heard a sigh, a click and a bang, and then he felt something strike the back of his head, and he fell once again into blackness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this one: cops are assholes; Grantaire gets shot but you know, Old Guard style, he's fine; Grantaire shoots Enjolras, but it's just to prove the whole immortal thing; none of the violence is graphic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warnings

Grantaire sighed as he looked down at the body on the street. He holstered his gun, and sat down on the gravel next to Enjolras to wait. He watched as the wound in the back of Enjolras’ head spat the bullet back out, and healed over before his eyes. He was getting faster already, that was good. It was only minutes before Enjolras was spluttering back into life, spitting out gravel where his face had hit the ground. 

“You shot me!” he accused when he finally struggled to his feet. 

“You came back,” Grantaire shrugged. 

“You - you -” Enjolras was sort of beautiful when he was angry, Grantaire mused, watching him struggle. He knew how difficult this was, of course. He’d been alone. As far as he knew, he’d been the first, and therefore the only one, and he’d had no one to explain it to him. He’d just died, over and over again, and tried to explain it away until, one day, he couldn’t anymore. He’d acknowledged he wasn’t going to be staying dead, and just moved on. 

“I know this is hard to believe,” he said out loud. “I know it feels impossible. But you were just shot in the head four and three-quarter minutes ago, and now you’re feeling well enough to stand there and yell at me for it.” He looked patiently at Enjolras. “So. Are you ready to come with me?”

Enjolras huffed, and Grantaire raised an eyebrow, waiting. On the one hand, he knew there was no use pushing; Enjolras would accept this in his own time. On the other hand, they were wanted men on the run from the law, and they really, really didn’t have time for this. 

It seemed Enjolras came to the same realization, because after a tense moment, he nodded, and stalked back towards the motorbike. Grantaire followed, and they continued on their way. 

They drove through what remained of the night, and arrived in Michigan in the late afternoon. Grantaire checked his phone, and memorized the name, address, and instructions Combeferre had forwarded him. Enjolras had fallen asleep at some point on the back of the bike, so it had been a quiet ride. Grantaire woke his passenger gently. “Hey. We’ve arrived.” 

“Montreal already?” Enjolras was still partially asleep, and confused in his drowsiness. 

“No, Michigan,” Grantaire corrected him. “There’s a man who’s going to help us cross the lake into Canada.” 

Enjolras nodded, and dismounted the bike. “Right..” He looked around, waking all the way up a little better. Now that he’d gotten some sleep, and they were well on their way to escaping the law, Grantaire suspected Enjolras would have more questions. Starting with..

“Can I borrow your phone? I’d like to contact my friends, let them know I’m okay?”

“I wouldn’t advise it.” This was going to be the hardest part, Grantaire suspected. Everyone had had difficulties leaving someone behind, and Grantaire suspected that for Enjolras it would be his activist friends. 

“They’ll be worried,” Enjolras protested. “Please, I just want them to know I’m alive.” 

“Why?” Grantaire asked. 

“Wh - what do you mean, why?” Enjolras looked confused and horrified. 

“Think about it,” Grantaire said, surprisingly gentle. “You’re immortal now, Enjolras. You’re not going to age with them, you’re not going to get sick, you’re not going to die. You can come back to life for them now, sure. But they’ll never understand. And as they get older, and sicker - as they start to die - they’ll resent you for it. Fear you. If they think you’re dead, they get to remember you the way they knew you, and you get to remember them, too, the way they are now. It’s - I know it’s tempting, but it’s not worth it.” 

Enjolras seemed to consider this, but he shook his head. “No - no, I don’t accept that,” he insisted. “It might not be easy, but my friends - they’re not like that, they’ll probably just be glad not to have to worry about me being safe anymore.” 

Grantaire didn’t believe it for a moment. He knew better - everyone wanted to believe their relationships would stay the same. He said as much, and ignored Enjolras’ frown. “And besides all that,” he continued, “you’ll be noticed eventually, especially if you insist on being as public as all that. I saw the footage - if you keep getting up on stages and then getting shot for your trouble, you’ll bring attention to all of us, not just yourself. Dying sucks, but you know what’s worse? Being captured, because that’s an eternity. And you’ll not just be putting yourself at risk - if they catch you, inevitably, they’ll come for the rest of us. We stay under the radar.” 

“So, what, I just have to stop?” Enjolras looked angry now. “This is what I do, this is who I am. If I have to temporarily step back so that I can fight another day, fine, but don’t you dare tell me to stop fighting!” 

“Fight all you like, but do it from the background, from behind the scenes. Feuilly can give you some tips, I’m sure, she’s still into that shit, too. But no more youtube videos, no more cameras, no more interviews, no more being the pretty face of the resistance, or whatever. We help. Or - we try. Fuck if it ever seems to do anything, but we do it quietly, without drawing so much damn attention to ourselves.” Grantaire wished desperately that someone other than him was here to help with this conversation. This wasn’t the part that he was good at, and as far as he could tell, Enjolras was just getting more and more riled up. 

“It’s not ‘shit.’” Sure enough, Enjolras’ response was practically shouted. “It’s important! The things we do count, we’re trying to make a difference. If we have these gifts, aren’t we obligated to make the most of them for the world? What good am I, if I hide like a coward?”

“Gods above, you’re a child. Naive and stubborn.” Grantaire was getting frustrated. Enjolras was young, of course. The youngest of the immortals in years, and probably the youngest at his first death, too. Grantaire couldn’t remember how old he had been, of course, it had been far too long for all of that, but Feuilly had been over 30, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac in their late twenties. Enjolras couldn’t be more than 25, still a student. 

“I’m not a child! Is that all you have to say?”

Enjolras was an angry, beautiful student, and Grantaire was struck by the feeling that their meeting was destined, somehow. He was reminded, briefly, of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, caught on opposite sides of a war, killing each other over and over until they just stopped, the slow journey of falling in love over centuries. How they said they were destined, and how bitter it sometimes made him to be around them. He sighed. “Enjolras. I have seen the world turn more times than you can begin to imagine. And let me tell you, nothing really changes. It’s futile - people will be as they are, across nations and across centuries. Nothing is as simple or linear as the idea of progress, and right now, we should be progressing across this gods-forsaken lake. Now, please.” He gestured towards the nearby marina, where several boats were moored. 

“You may be old, but that doesn’t mean you know everything,” Enjolras snapped, but Grantaire was satisfied to see him stomping towards the marina anyway. 

At the docks, an old man was sitting in a plastic chair and smoking. Grantaire watched him stand, hat pulled low. “Lookin’ for a ride?” the man asked. 

“Heading north,” Grantaire nodded. This must be Courfeyrac’s contact. 

“Sure is nice up there this time of year,” the old man agreed. “Come on, then, you and your friend there.” 

Grantaire gestured for Enjolras to follow. All three climbed into the little boat. Grantaire was glad that he was immortal - Superior had a reputation for being nearly as difficult to navigate as an ocean, and while drowning was one of his least favourite ways to die, at least if this boat was overturned, he wouldn’t become another body at the bottom of the vast lake. 

Enjolras must not have known this about the lake, because he got in the boat and seated himself, with a life vest and all, behind the cabin. He looked a bit nervous, as a person who isn’t familiar with boats often does, but not as alarmed as he should to be crossing Lake Superior in a vessel barely 20 feet long. 

“Off we go, then!” 

Grantaire felt the boat hum to life with the captain’s words, and he nodded, looking out across the water. “It’ll be a long trip, yet,” he told Enjolras. “Get some sleep if you can.” 

He didn’t follow his own advice, though he saw Enjolras pull up a silver heat blanket and try to settle down. Grantaire leaned against the side of the boat, and watched the lake pass. They wouldn’t stop, Grantaire assumed; you were only considered to have landed if you stopped, after all, so they wouldn’t have to report their entry into Canada until the boat came to a halt. From there, the captain would be expected to call in their arrival and have it cleared. The only reason not to call in your arrival would be if you were passing through without stopping at all, the intended landing being somewhere still in the States. Grantaire suspected the captain would steer them somewhere near-ish land, and have them swim to shore. Not exactly pleasant in this climate, it being barely summer, but certainly survivable for Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire pondered for a moment that this was the sort of information he had readily available in his mind, the intricacies of illegal border crossings, and then shrugged it off. Laws meant very little to someone who had seen borders rise and fall like he had, and secrecy was paramount to his freedom, which he valued above pretty much all else. 

It was a few hours before they arrived at the border, which was mostly just patrolled by ships, manned by both American and Canadian officers. The captain must have registered his route ahead of time, because he received a radio call to confirm his identity, and upon confirmation, was allowed to pass without so much as pausing. It was an easy crossing into Canadian Waters, in any case, and Grantaire relaxed as they made it past that first obstacle. 

He watched Enjolras sleep for a little while. In the moonlight, his blond hair shone less brightly, but his face was relaxed, for once, some of that tension released. He must have been exhausted - death, followed by days in prison, to be carted off gods only knew where, no information, no understanding of what was happening, and then a car chase and a trip with a stranger to a new country. Grantaire hoped that some rest would help. He was looking forward to getting some sleep - he’d been awake for over 24 hours now, and he would need a bit of rest before continuing the journey into Québec. 

Enjolras, though. Grantaire let out a slow breath as he observed further. He was striking - he’d noticed that in the photographs, of course, but he was even more so in person. Grantaire couldn’t forget the way it felt to be pierced by those eyes. Enjolras was the sort of person to draw attention; it would make things complicated, of course, but gods, Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to mind. He himself wouldn’t mind looking at a face like that for eternity, even if the personality attached to it seemed determined to dislike him. 

He looked away from Enjolras again, and back out across the water. The wind was picking up, but they were sticking close enough to shore that hopefully they wouldn’t be swallowed up entirely. 

The newly rough waves did wake Enjolras, though. He rubbed his eyes blearily, and struggled to his feet. 

“Stay down,” Grantaire instructed, though he made no move to do the same. “The lower your centre of gravity, the better your balance. Wouldn’t want you to go overboard.” 

“Wha’s happening?” Enjolras asked, looking a little queasy. 

“Lake Superior seldom gives up her dead,” Grantaire hummed the line from the song, almost to himself. “The sweetwater sea, she’s called sometimes - biggest lake in the world, going by surface area. It means she gets a bit choppy, though. Bigger and better ships than this have been lost to her depths.” 

“So we’re in danger?” Enjolras looked properly worried, now. 

“The ship could be. The Captain, certainly. But you and I, we’ll survive. It’d be pretty unpleasant, of course - I hate drowning. Fucking awful.” Grantaire shuddered. “But no, he seems to have a handle on it, and we’re near enough to shore that hopefully this will pass soon enough.” 

“Why cross this way, if it’s so dangerous? Why risk that man’s life?”

“Everyone who sails on the lake takes some risks. And this one’s good at getting past the border. He’s Courfeyrac’s contact, not mine, so I don’t know the details, mind you, but Courf is pretty good at reading people. I’m sure it’s all under control.” 

“You’ve mentioned a few of the others,” Enjolras piped up. “Tell me about them?”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Sure. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are the oldest, next to me. They met in the crusades - opposite sides, actually. Courfeyrac is French, was a Catholic, is now,” Grantaire paused to make a vague hand motion. “Combeferre is from Antioch, Muslim, still is but in his own way. Their story is just - I mean, you should let them tell it, the romantic assholes. They’re the most ridiculously in love couple you will ever meet, it’s truly disgusting. I mean I’m happy for them, don’t get me wrong. I’m pretty sure their love is what kept them from becoming bitter assholes like me. It can be nauseating, but in a good way. Lucky bastards. 

“And then there’s Feuilly. She died in the partitions of Poland, in the 1700s - not permanently, obviously, but that’s when we found her. She was part of an uprising - you’d have to get the whole details from her, but she fought the Russians, I think? Anyway, the uprising failed, she was killed, and the three of us were together - Ferre, Courf, and I - and so we tracked her down together. You’ll like her - she likes to get involved in labour stuff, worker’s rights, that sort of thing. She can be a challenge to find, she goes off on her own a lot, and hates phones even more than I do, but she’s a good person. One of the best.” 

When Grantaire finished, he thought this must be the longest Enjolras had listened to him without interrupting. He seemed to be paying attention and everything, and Grantaire supposed Enjolras must be curious about the other people like him out there. 

“And you?” Enjolras inevitably asked. Grantaire had hoped he wouldn’t. “What’s your story?”

“I’m too old to remember,” Grantaire deflected, grinning all the while. “Too many years lost to the wine, I’m afraid. I think I was worshipped as a god for a while there, though, that was fun.” 

“You don’t remember your own story?” Enjolras seemed skeptical. 

“Hey, when you live as long as I have, you try remembering anything,” Grantaire protested, still smiling. 

Enjolras shook his head. “Keep your secrets, then,” he allowed. “Maybe one of the others will tell me.” 

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Grantaire joked. 

“Are you in charge, then?” Enjolras asked. 

“Eh.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t say anyone is really in charge. We all fill a role. Ferre is good with computers, Courf is good with people, Feuilly has connections and experience.”

“You always leave yourself out,” Enjolras observed. 

“You notice too much,” Grantaire retorted. 

“So I’ve been told.” Enjolras didn’t back down. 

“Well, maybe in this case it’s because I’m not good for much. An ancient wine cask is no better than a new one, after all, and what has time granted me but bitterness and loneliness? We cannot all be so lucky in love as Combeferre and Courfeyrac, after all, or so blessed with passion for a lost cause as Feuilly.” Grantaire itched for a drink, but there was none on this little boat. 

“What good indeed,” Enjolras sniffed. “At least you know you’re lost in bitterness. I don’t believe in lost causes. There’s always hope for better, so long as people are willing to fight for it.” 

“People fight and they die, all except you and I.” 

The boat rocked over a particularly violent wave, and Grantaire nearly went over, distracted as he was. He might have gone under properly, but Enjolras reached out and gripped him by the hem of his shirt. Enjolras must be hiding surprising strength under his clothes, and Grantaire’s eyes widened dramatically as the boat rocked the other way, launching Grantaire toward Enjolras. 

They landed on the floor of the boat, Grantaire on top of Enjolras, chest-to-chest, close enough for Grantaire to feel Enjolras’ breath on his face. Both of them turned bright red, and Grantaire stumbled backwards, pushing himself away. 

“Be - um. Be careful,” Enjolras stammered as he got to his feet as well, brushing himself off. Grantaire followed suit, not making eye contact. 

“Yes. No room for foolish rambling now. Hopefully the wind will pass soon.” Grantaire cleared his throat and put space between them again. 

With the near miss, it seemed conversation had ended. Both were awkwardly looking away from each other, pretending to be busy with something else, though what that might be was undecided, as there wasn’t actually much to do on a boat like this. 

Grantaire was doing his best not to think too hard about being so close to Enjolras. The heat in his face and neck was just embarrassment at having fallen like that, of course. And the twist in his stomach was just the same - humiliation, nothing more. He had no illusion that he was cool or suave, of course, but he did like to come off as at least a little bit competent, after his many, many years of life. He wondered what Enjolras was thinking, too, but didn’t let himself dwell on it. 

Not dwelling on it proved difficult; there was a shortage of anything to do but think. In the end, Grantaire tried his best to get a little bit of sleep, encouraging Enjolras to sit in the meantime so they didn’t have another such incident. If his voice was a little gruffer than he intended, well, sometimes that happened. 

It was an hour or two before the wind subsided. On the positive side, it had actually shortened their journey significantly, the waves and wind pushing them along. On the negative side, they had navigated off of their projected route, and were at much higher risk of encountering border patrols on a much more trafficked route. 

It turned out to be lucky that Combeferre had prepared fake papers for them both. Grantaire preferred not to use them - it was better not to be seen or recorded, even with a fake name - but it was better to have them if you were caught. The boat was stopped an hour outside of the town of Marathon, instead of the town of Terrace Bay, as they had been aiming for, and Grantaire was forced to present his and Enjolras’ papers, declaring them both to be Americans by the names of Terry Roy (Grantaire) and Justin Lawrence (Enjolras). The captain explained that they were going on a trip trying to make it all the way around the border of Lake Superior, a lifelong goal of theirs, and that they had been blown off course by the wind. 

Satisfied, the officers let them go. Combeferre’s fake papers were convincing, and the story was common enough. Plenty of people underestimated this lake and ended up off course. Plenty of people knew exactly what this lake was capable of and were still swept away. Their entry into Canada was recorded, which was unfortunate, but hopefully they would be long gone before anyone clued into the fact that ‘Justin’ looked an awful lot like an escaped criminal from Chicago. 

There weren’t any more complications, after that. It was a few more hours before they were trundling along, half a kilometer from the coast of Marathon. Behind the cover of an island, Grantaire and Enjolras slipped off the side of the boat, and started the swim for shore. They wouldn’t turn up in the actual harbour, but on a stretch of beach not too far from the road. From there, it was a long walk into town. By the time they arrived, they were dry, at least, and gaining a lot less attention for it. It wasn’t too difficult to find a car for sale in an empty parking lot, and Grantaire thanked every god he didn’t believe in that Canadian money was waterproof, because $500 later they were on their way. 

Enjolras had been quiet much of this time; Grantaire assumed the swim had exhausted him, on top of everything else, and decided it was probably a blessing anyway. “You okay there?” he checked anyway, a few minutes into the road. 

Enjolras looked at him, and seemed to consider his answer. “No,” he admitted. “It’s.. well, it’s a lot. It wasn’t that long ago that I was making social plans with my friends, and I just remembered that I have a paper due next week in one of my classes. I had worries, but they were about the logistics of fundraising for bail money if necessary, not being on the run, crossing national borders, and - immortality, god, it’s absurd, but I can’t deny something is happening to me...” He trailed off, looking lost.

Grantaire listened patiently. They had time for this, now. Their car was legally bought and everything. “I’m sorry,” he said frankly. “I know it sucks.”

“I want to call my friends. I know you’re going to say I can’t, but I can’t imagine what they’re thinking right now.” 

Enjolras wasn’t looking directly at Grantaire, but his body language spoke volumes. The clenched fists; the tense, high shoulders; the rigid posture; the tremble in his voice. 

“You must miss them,” Grantaire said instead of telling Enjolras no again. “Tell me about them? I told you about my friends, after all.” 

There was a moment of quiet, and then Enjolras began to speak. 

“Well.. There’s Bossuet, and Joly, and Musichetta. You almost can’t mention one without the others, they’re so close. Bossuet is the unluckiest man I think I’ve ever met -” Enjolras had to pause to laugh at this despite himself. It was a thin, watery thing, but a laugh nonetheless. “But he always says the world gave him too much good luck in giving him Joly and Musichetta, so the universe has to balance it out somehow. He’s always cheerful, despite everything. And then Joly is a doctor, and a bit of a hypochondriac.”

“Quite the combination,” Grantaire cut in. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras laughed again. “He’s the biggest mother hen, he really is. But brave, when the situation really calls for it - he’s always the last to leave his station as medic if something goes sideways at an event. And Musichetta, she’s their girlfriend, all three of them are together. She owns the bar we meet in, since the university said we can’t meet there anymore. She doesn’t take anyone’s shit.”

Grantaire nodded, and just waited for Enjolras to continue. It seemed like talking about his friends was helping, even if it was just a distraction. 

“Bahorel is a boxer,” Enjolras kept going. “And also a knitter, and a collector of stray cats. Everyone says he looks intimidating, and I guess he can be, but he’s a softie, really, as long as you’re not an asshole anyway. And then there’s Jehan - they’re the opposite, really, they’re tiny, and a poet, and everyone underestimates them,” he shook his head like this was a grave mistake. “But no one in their right mind would cross them. They’re a force of nature.”

Enjolras continued; Grantaire recognized most of the names from the website. A collective of close friends. Grantaire felt a wave of sadness, not unusual in and of itself, except that it was on behalf of someone else for once. Enjolras had a life, a good one. He had friends, good ones. He had passion, and drive; Grantaire listened as Enjolras described how they had come together and started fighting for better, he shared stories from protests and rallies and fundraisers past. Grantaire encouraged him, egging him on. They got into little spats when Grantaire couldn’t manage to keep his opinions to himself, but mostly, it was the most pleasant they had been with each other, this portion of the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much for this chapter. Instant healing from last chapter's gunshot, discussion of drowning


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see the end notes for warnings

Enjolras almost forgot himself, talking about his friends and his work. Grantaire was actually listening, even if he couldn’t seem to stop himself from being antagonistic sometimes. Enjolras wondered, briefly, why he was so argumentative. After all, he’d said he and the others helped. That one of them was even involved in labour rights. And he got the feeling that Grantaire was the unspoken leader, but then it didn’t make sense - this disillusioned, cynical man, the leader of a group of immortal people fighting for change? Enjolras found himself intrigued, despite himself. He wanted to know what R’s story was, especially when he seemed so reluctant to share. 

The chance to talk, and the discovery of a mystery to unravel, helped distract and calm him. By the time they were pulling into a gas station to stop, several hours had passed, with only minor spats between the pair. “Go in and get us a table,” Grantaire gestured to the little diner attached to the gas station. “I’ll get gas and park. You must be hungry.” 

Enjolras was suddenly very aware that he wasn’t sure when he’d last eaten. His stomach gave a timely growl, and he nodded. “Right. Yes.” He hesitated. Part of him wanted to thank Grantaire - he was sure that it wasn’t an accident, that he’d managed to help Enjolras calm down by letting him talk. But he also didn’t want to spook him again; he seemed defensive. So he walked away without saying anything else, and waited for Grantaire in the restaurant. 

While he waited, he spied the phone at the counter. He could probably ask to use it, call Joly or Jehan or Bahorel or Cosette. The temptation was strong; he didn’t really believe what Grantaire had said, after all. Maybe  _ his _ friends had turned on him like that, but Enjolras didn’t think for a moment that his own would. He stood, and walked over, glancing out the window. R wasn’t with the car anymore, but it was still parked at the gas pump. A woman in a checkered apron looked at Enjolras, and smiled. 

“Hello, young man. Are you ready to order?”

“Oh.” He paused. “Um - actually -” He glanced at the car again. 

“Are you alright?” She looked concerned, and gave him a more concerned look. Enjolras realized he must look a fright. 

“Actually, I was just going to ask for a couple glasses of water? I’m waiting for my friend. And I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the rest room.” Enjolras answered without really thinking about it. He wasn’t sure what had changed his mind, but - well, there would be another opportunity. There had to be. 

He accepted the glasses, and carried them back to the table, then went to the washroom and washed his face and hands. It was almost a stranger he saw in the mirror; he had bags under his eyes, and his hair was dirty and unkempt, dried from his swim by now but still a mess. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and returned to the booth, just as Grantaire walked in the door. Enjolras waved, and Grantaire smiled. 

“Have you ordered anything?” Grantaire asked. 

Enjolras shook his head, mute. 

“You got water, that’s good,” Grantaire continued as if nothing was wrong. 

Enjolras nodded. 

Grantaire frowned a little, sympathetic. “Hey, I know this is.. A lot,” he murmured. “It’s - well, it’s not always peaches and roses, or whatever, but it is gonna be okay, you know? You’re not alone, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras nodded again, and hid behind a menu, not wanting Grantaire to see he was near tears. It wasn’t fair; he just wanted to see his friends. He wanted to be in his apartment, fussing over his essay for Ethics and Policy class, plotting the ABC’s next move at the Musain, anything but this. It was really starting to feel real, somehow - like the last 60 hours had been a dream. But it was real, wasn’t it? He’d been shot, he’d been killed by the police. He’d been cut open and sewn back up, he’d woken in a police cell, he was on the run from shady people in suits who were going to take him away somewhere. His friends were grieving, they’d never even get a body. He wondered briefly if his parents had been told, and then pushed that away. He was shaking, he noted as if from a distance, his hands unsteady. 

“Hey,” he heard a voice, gentle, low. “Hey, Ange, breathe, it’s alright, you’re alright.” He dropped the menu, and met Grantaire’s eyes. They were kind eyes, he observed. Grantaire was reaching out. “Can I touch you?” 

Enjolras flinched back, and Grantaire’s hands returned to his own sides. “Sorry,” he breathed, trying to get himself under control. “I’m - I’m okay, I’m good.”

“You’re not,” Grantaire disagreed gently. “And that’s okay too. You’ve been through a lot - I’m told even immortals can have trauma.” 

Enjolras wondered if immortals could go to therapy, and supposed you probably weren’t supposed to keep huge secrets from your therapist, and probably he shouldn’t tell a therapist that he was an American fugitive anyway, and then he realized that he hadn’t taken his anxiety pills in - actually, he still wasn’t sure how many days. 

“What’s the date?” he asked. 

“June 10th,” Grantaire answered. If he found the question odd, he showed no sign of it. 

Three missed pills, then. Enjolras supposed he’d probably be panicking at this point anyway, though. He closed his eyes, and breathed slowly, counting silently down from 100 as he did. Grounding - he was in a diner, he was safe (for now), he was with a friend (sort of). There wasn’t much that was comforting or grounding about his current situation, so it didn’t work very well, but eventually, Enjolras opened his eyes again. His face was wet - from tears, probably. Grantaire still looked concerned, hands fluttering like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure what to do. 

“I’m okay,” Enjolras said slowly. “Or - well. Okay enough for now,” he amended, and he tried not to think about it too hard. 

“Drink some water,” Grantaire nodded after a moment. “You think you’re up to eating something?”

Enjolras nodded, and glanced at the menu briefly before choosing something pretty much at random. 

Grantaire nodded, and went up to order. Enjolras drained his glass of water, and leaned back against his seat. “Fuck,” he murmured emphatically. He wiped his face dry with a napkin, and wished once again that he could talk to his friends. Cosette would know what to do. Jehan would know just the right thing to say. 

Grantaire returned after a few minutes, two plates in hand. He placed one in front of Enjolras, a simple sandwich and some soup. Enjolras wasn’t sure if it was what he’d chosen, he couldn’t remember. 

“Comfort food,” Grantaire explained gruffly. “Drink this, too.” He placed a steaming mug in front of Enjolras, who took a sip. 

It wasn’t coffee, which was momentarily disappointing, before Enjolras decided it was for the best - coffee would only make his anxiety worse right now. It was hot chocolate, rich and warm and comforting. “Thank you,” Enjolras said after a moment, a few bites into his sandwich. 

“Nothing to thank me for,” Grantaire brushed him off. His plate looked odd - french fries, loaded with gravy, and - was that cheese? Grantaire must have noticed Enjolras looking, because he shrugged, and explained, “It’s better in Québec, but it’s still good. Poutine, a very Canadian thing.” 

Enjolras nodded again, and ate some of his soup. Before too long, they both finished their meals. Enjolras felt better with food in his stomach, he had to admit. He was still exhausted, and frightened, and angry, and overwhelmed, and - well, he was feeling a lot of things at the moment, but now he at least wasn’t hungry. Grantaire paid the bill, and they returned to the car, now parked in a proper spot. 

“Why is this happening?” Enjolras asked, as they started driving again. “I mean - why me?” 

“Fucked if I know,” Grantaire answered, and Enjolras frowned. 

“Do you have no answers? You’ve been around for so long, and you’ve never tried to find out why?”

“I don’t know if there is an answer. Combeferre would probably say it’s fate.”

“I dreamed about you,” Enjolras replied, pressing harder. “I saw your face, and others. There were others.” 

“We dreamed about you, too. It’s how we found you,” Grantaire confirmed. 

“But why?” Enjolras could feel himself getting frustrated. “Why us? Why the dreams?”

“I say it’s because misery loves company,” Grantaire shrugged. “Courfeyrac, the old romantic, thinks it’s destiny, that we’re meant to find each other, and the dreams help us do that. And who knows, maybe he’s got a point - gods know he and Combeferre are better adjusted, when they have each other. Feuilly and I probably spend too much time alone, but even she has her causes.” He glanced at Enjolras. “As for why us? Well.. we’re all fighters,” he pointed out. “They all think there must be a reason. I used to,” he admitted, and seemed to regret it immediately. “But nothing changes.” 

Enjolras found the thread, and he tugged. “You used to believe in change,” he repeated back at Grantaire. “And - what, now you don’t? You’re giving up?”

“It’s the same shit,” Grantaire waved a hand as he spoke. “Time turns and turns on its wheel and it’s the same shit, people try to change things just to become as bad as the people they overturned. We’ve fought and killed and been killed, and for what? World’s still shit, or you wouldn’t be who you are,” he pointed out. 

“But we’ve made progress,” Enjolras disagreed, trying to make him understand. “Sure, there are still problems, and right now things seem particularly bleak, yeah, but that’s no reason to give up. We can still do better.” 

Enjolras grew impatient as Grantaire remained silent for a while, just that sad look in his eyes. Just as he was about to interrupt, Grantaire spoke. “I hope you always believe that,” he said softly. “I hope you never lose that spark, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “What, like you?” he asked. “I don’t get it. If you want to believe, just do.”

“It’s that simple, is it?” Grantaire’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Enjolras wanted to shake him, and shout  _ Yes, it is! _ until Grantaire believed him. 

“Maybe it can be. You make it sound like your friends still believe,” he said instead.

Grantaire tipped his head at that, like he was granting Enjolras the point. “I suppose they do. And a young idealist like you, you’ll just spur them on.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” Enjolras demanded. He wanted to understand where Grantaire was coming from. 

“It is, if you convince them to do something reckless that exposes us,” Grantaire frowned. “We have to be careful, and careful doesn’t seem like your MO.” 

“I can adapt,” Enjolras countered. If his determined cynicism was just a front for concern for his friends, well, Enjolras could work with that. “If you say the only way is to step back myself and hide my face, I can work to support other people who can be the face of it, if necessary. I can write anonymously, or under a pseudonym.” 

Grantaire finally looked at him properly, and Enjolras didn’t back down, meeting his gaze with fiery eyes and clenched fists. Grantaire was the first to look away with a sigh. “I hope so, Enjolras,” he said eventually. Enjolras groaned in frustration. 

“You’re the worst,” he accused. “No matter what I say, you don’t listen. You’re not even arguing back, not really, you don’t have any points besides ‘ _ Oh, you’re so young, you’ll see _ .’ Like I have to be some jaded asshole to know anything. You don’t know a damn thing either, so what are you even good for?” 

Enjolras knew as he said it that he’d gone too far. He didn’t need to see the way Grantaire’s expressive eyes shuttered, the way his hands clenched on the steering wheel, to know he’d crossed a line. “Grantaire, I-” 

“Don’t worry, boy wonder,” Grantaire flashed a sarcastic grin at him. “You’re not saying anything I don’t already know.” 

They were stuck in this car together. There was nowhere for either of them to go; Enjolras supposed that Grantaire could just kick him out of the car, but he couldn’t dwell on that possibility without his hands shaking again. He would be alone in a country he didn’t know, miles from anything. He hadn’t even known, before this, that you could drive so far and not see anything other than the very occasional gas station and dense land covered in trees and rocks. He had no phone, no money - no. No, he told himself, Grantaire wouldn’t just abandon him. Not after everything he’d done to get Enjolras here - right? 

They’d been sitting in silence for a while, Enjolras spiraling quietly. They were passing a sign for Wawa, and it was getting almost dark, by the time either of them spoke again. 

“We’ll stop here for tonight. You must be exhausted,” Grantaire finally said, sounding exhausted himself. Enjolras nodded, mute. He heard, rather than saw, Grantaire sigh. “Right,” he muttered. He pulled the car into town, past an enormous statue of a goose, and up to a motel. “Wait here.” 

Enjolras waited in the car. Grantaire was gone for a few minutes, and when he returned, there were two key passes in his hand. “C’mon, then,” he said, and locked the car behind them before leading Enjolras to one of the rooms. 

It was a typical motel, really. Two twin beds, a small bathroom, a tv that only seemed to play infomercials when Grantaire turned it on and flipped through the channels. He left it on something about a blender, and disappeared into the bathroom. Enjolras sat on one of the beds. They’d been getting along, for a while, and Enjolras had gone and ruined it. Why did Grantaire have to be so frustrating, and then a moment later so kind? It was going to give him whiplash. 

Enjolras wouldn’t admit to it, but he sulked on the bed for a moment longer, and then, when the door to the bathroom opened again, he slipped past Grantaire and inside the bathroom himself. He turned the shower on, dialed it hot, and shed his clothes before stepping inside. He let the hot water soothe aching muscles with a sigh, and relaxed for the first time in - hell, probably in weeks, he’d been so tense even before the rally. He let the water run over him for a while, before starting to wash up. He missed his hair care products at home, a rare concession to his vanity, but scrubbed himself clean. He felt better already, he had to admit, and he closed his eyes, just for a moment. 

As he stood there, he certainly didn’t think of Grantaire. Not of that moment on the boat, when they’d fallen together, and not in the diner, hands brushing over sugar packets. Not of the soft look in his eyes when Enjolras had spoken about his friends, either, or the way he’d turned cold and distant when Enjolras insulted him. He sighed, and his head fell against the wall of the shower with a faint thud. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. So much had happened, and somehow a stupid crush on an infuriating man felt like the straw to break his back. He supposed that a broken back probably wasn’t such a big deal, now, and then wondered why his immortality couldn’t have cured his anxiety, too, along with his physical injuries. 

The water was starting to run cold by the time he stepped out of the shower and towelled himself dry. Enjolras realized that he didn’t have a change of clothes, and he looked with distaste at the clothes on the ground. He sighed, and picked them up, filling the sink with soap and water. He scrubbed his clothes, and hung them over the shower door to dry. He tried to blow dry his boxers, at least, but they were still uncomfortably damp when he finished. He steeled himself, then, and made sure his towel was wrapped tightly around his waist before stepping out of the bathroom. 

When he did, Grantaire looked up, turned a funny shade of red, and then averted his eyes, not looking anywhere near Enjolras. Enjolras, in turn, did his best not to be offended or embarrassed by Grantaire’s obvious distaste, and marched up to the bed, climbing in and leaning against the headboard, blankets pulled up to his waist. He grabbed the remote for the tv, and tried to find a channel not playing infomercials. Grantaire cleared his throat, but still didn’t look at Enjolras. “I’m gonna - go. Out. Don’t wait up.” 

Enjolras glanced at the time. It was ten at night, and dark out, and he was pretty sure it was a Tuesday. “Oh.” He could only conclude that Grantaire was trying to get away from him. “Right. Okay.” 

It was fair enough, he told himself. Grantaire had to be sick of babysitting him, after all, he probably needed his space. And Enjolras was safe here. 

The door closed behind Grantaire, and Enjolras heard the engine start. 

It was fine. Totally fine. He was fine. Grantaire could go and do whatever he wanted, it didn’t matter to him. He scowled, and the tv finally landed on a channel showing the news. It was in French, and Enjolras’ two years of high school french classes weren’t enough to keep up with the rapid fire Québécois french of the hosts, but he caught enough to distract him, and eventually, he fell asleep with the lights still on, drooped over the bed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Enjolras has a panic attack


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see the end notes for content warnings.

Grantaire returned to the motel several hours later, a bit drunk, and carrying a trash bag full of ‘borrowed’ clothes. If he was going to stay sane, he couldn’t have a nearly-naked Enjolras wandering around. He’d nearly died on the spot when Enjolras had emerged in that tiny motel towel, and then wished he _could_ die when he remembered just how little Enjolras could stand him. 

Upon his return, though, he found the French CBC playing on the television, and Enjolras passed out in bed. He looked at him for a while, wished he still had some of that wine, and then gathered himself together and set the clothes out on top of the bedside table. He ran a hand through his hair, and turned the lights off, approaching Enjolras silently. He couldn’t touch him, not when Enjolras was naked, but he did pull the blankets up around him, tucking him in a little better. After a moment, Enjolras slid down on his own, curling into the blankets. Grantaire could have sworn his heart grew three sizes just watching him. He was beautiful, but it wasn’t just that - he was passionate, and brave, and all the things Grantaire didn’t dare to be, and now in sleep he was vulnerable, too, all those sharp edges softened a little. 

“Pull yourself together,” he whispered to himself, the effects of the alcohol already wearing off. Damn healing. He tugged his own shirt and jeans off, and decided he should try to get some sleep himself. 

  
  


He awoke to the sound of a shout, and heavy breathing. “Enjolras.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Hey..” He looked over at the blond, who was sitting upright in bed, eyes and hair both wild. He was clutching his own chest, and he looked terrified. “It’s just a nightmare,” Grantaire said slowly. “Hey, look at me, Angel, you’re safe. You’re in a motel in - well, in a Canadian town with a silly name, and you’re with me, and no one is going to hurt you. You’re alive, you’re safe, you’re free.” 

Grantaire watched as Enjolras struggled to process his words. “Safe-” he murmured, looking at Grantaire as he calmed down. Grantaire was almost surprised to see he was crying, shoulders shaking. Grantaire got out of bed, and padded over to Enjolras. 

“You with me?” he asked quietly, reaching out to brush some of Enjolras’ hair from his face. 

Enjolras flinched, hard, and Grantaire cursed under his breath. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He held his hands up to show he wouldn’t touch again, but Enjolras made a wounded sound, and reached out, pulling Grantaire close again. 

Grantaire complied. He sat on the edge of Enjolras’ bed, and pulled him into a hug, not so tight Enjolras would feel trapped, but firm enough to feel real. “I’ve got you,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay.” 

He felt Enjolras’ face land on his shoulder, and he could feel Enjolras shaking in his arms as he sobbed. Grantaire petted his hair slowly as he cried, and just let Enjolras let it out. Eventually, he seemed to calm down again, but he didn’t pull away. Grantaire stayed, offering what little comfort he could. “Nightmares, huh?” he asked eventually. 

“I could see them,” Enjolras said after a moment, voice thin. “I was so scared, I - I know I was brave when it happened, but I dreamed I - I begged them to let me go - I was so scared, R,” Enjolras admitted. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire murmured. “That’s - it’s an awful thing, what happened to you. What they did.”

Enjolras didn’t reply, just took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Grantaire was struck by the thought that Enjolras would be mortified by this in the morning, this late-night vulnerability, but that was a problem for the morning. 

“Stay?” Enjolras asked, voice small. Grantaire’s heart broke a little, and he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, Angel.” 

Enjolras nodded, and lay back down, pulling Grantaire with him. Grantaire followed, pulling the blankets over both of Enjolras, laying on top of them himself - Enjolras was still undressed, after all. It was a tight fit, the both of them in a double bed, and Grantaire hoped Enjolras wasn’t a cuddler. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right here with you,” he promised, and Enjolras nodded. It didn’t take either of them long to drift off again. 

  
  


Grantaire woke first. It was bright out already, but he was distracted by the body heat of another person in his bed. Had he picked someone up last night..? Surely he wouldn’t, not with Enjolras - ah. The memories came back, then. Enjolras’ nightmare, his soft plea for Grantaire to stay. Grantaire glanced at the sleeping beauty currently wrapped around him like a cuddly octopus, and was tempted for a moment to just stay like that, consequences be damned, but he knew Enjolras wouldn’t like it when he woke. With that thought, he carefully extricated himself from Enjolras’ grip. Enjolras made a soft whining sound as he did, and Grantaire’s resolve nearly broke, but he managed to get out of bed without waking Enjolras. Enjolras made another displeased sound, but his arms wrapped around a pillow, and before long he was deep in sleep again. 

Grantaire watched him for a moment, before shaking himself back to reality. He showered, put on clean clothes, folded up Enjolras’ newly washed clothes from the night before. He wrote a quick note, in case Enjolras woke up, and stepped out. He needed to pick up some breakfast for them, and he needed to check in with the others. 

It was Feuilly who picked up the phone when Grantaire called this time. “Hey, fucker, took you long enough to check in,” she accused. Grantaire laughed. 

“Yes, well, we’re both alive - obviously. Enjolras is sleeping, we’re in Wawa now. We’ll probably be there in a couple days.” They could get there sooner, Grantaire knew. Technically, the drive should clock in around 14 hours, if they didn’t stop. Enjolras could sleep in the car, Grantaire could try to gun it. But Enjolras deserved a proper bed to sleep in, and a chance to take it slow. He felt bad for holding up the others, but he thought it was worth it. “I think we’ll stop around Val d’Or tonight,” he suggested instead, “Make the last of the trek tomorrow.” 

“Alright,” Feuilly agreed. “How’s he holding up? The new kid.” 

“He’s..” Grantaire trailed off. “I mean, he’s been through a lot. He wants to talk to his friends pretty badly, and I really wish..” 

“Yeah,” Feuilly agreed sympathetically. “Fuckin’ sucks.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed in turn. There was a pause for a moment. 

“Well,” Feuilly said. “I mean..” she trailed off. “You could just let him.”

“ _ What.” _ Grantaire said, flat. “Feuilly, come on, you can’t be serious.” 

“I mean, I looked into them, their little group. They don’t seem like they’re gonna turn us into the government or anything.” She seemed to be serious. “And we’ve all talked about how important a support system is in all this. Sure, he’s got us, but - well, you’re a dysfunctional mess. Love you, babe, but it’s true.” 

“Fuck you,” Grantaire grumbled good-naturedly. 

“In your wildest dreams,” Feuilly replied with a laugh. “But I mean, seriously. Worst case, what, they tell someone, we go off the grid for a bit, somewhere even the Americans won’t meddle, and soon enough they forget us. More likely, even if they do tell someone, who’s gonna believe it? They’re a bunch of anarchist punks, and you know ‘Ferre will scrub any mention of us from conspiracy boards or whatever before it goes anywhere. We’re getting good at this technology thing - or, well, most of us. You still live in the dark ages,” she teased. 

“Okay, sure, maybe they won’t tell anyone about us,” Grantaire allowed. “Especially if we make it clear Enjolras’ safety is on the line or something, they seem like the sort of people who would worry about that. There’s still the whole not-aging, not-dying, out-living everyone you’ve ever cared about and watching them grow old and wither away thing,” Grantaire argued. “Isn’t a clean break better than that?”

“Don’t you think that’s maybe his choice to make?” Feuilly asked gently. “R, I know you try to protect us, I know you think it’s your job, but he’s not actually a kid, you know that right?”

“Oh trust me, I know,” Grantaire muttered, thinking unbidden of Enjolras in that fucking towel again. 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s very pretty.” Feuilly rolled her eyes at him, Grantaire was sure - he could feel it from a thousand kilometers away. “But he’s also able to choose for himself. Let him.” 

“Ugh.” Grantaire didn’t like it. He didn’t like the idea of Enjolras hurting, not now, not in 70 years when all his friends were dead and dying. But then.. Feuilly was right. If Enjolras really trusted these people, then they probably could too. “I’ll think about it. But not until we’re safe, and some time has passed,” he insisted. “I’m sure the Americans will be watching his friends, expecting him to make contact. We need to lay low for a while.” 

“Good,” Feuilly seemed pleased. “Well, we’re all here. Don’t rush, the bagels are excellent, and the city is beautiful. It’s been at least fifty years since I was here, it’s gorgeous.” 

“Yeah, you enjoy your vacation.” Feuilly deserved a vacation, honestly, she overworked herself too much. Grantaire would be glad to give her the excuse to sit down and relax for a minute. 

“You enjoy your road trip,” she laughed, and hung up. 

Grantaire pocketed his phone, and looked around. During his call, he’d managed to walk downtown. He stepped into a little restaurant, ordered a pair of breakfast sandwiches and coffees, and started walking back to the motel. He put the idea of contacting Enjolras’ friends out of his mind for now; there was too much else going on, and he didn’t want to give Enjolras that hope only to make him wait. 

When Grantaire returned to the hotel, Enjolras was awake and watching the news. He had picked out clothes from the pile, jeans and a red hoodie. After a full night’s sleep and a shower, Grantaire thought he looked more like his photos - not that he hadn’t been gorgeous before. He made gimme hands when Grantaire entered, and Grantaire thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. He handed over the coffee and sandwich. 

“You’re a saint and a blessing,” Enjolras informed Grantaire as he took his first sip. 

Grantaire laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I was worshipped -” 

“-As a god, yeah, you’ve mentioned,” Enjolras laughed. It seemed they had both reached an agreement to leave both their fight and Enjolras’ midnight panic attack behind, unspoken. It was better that way - Grantaire didn’t know what he would say if Enjolras wanted to talk about it, anyway. 

It was a little surprising that Enjolras had been paying enough attention to remember that, but Grantaire tried not to show it. “Man, it usually takes at least a year or two for people to start getting tired of my stories,” Grantaire joked. 

“To be fair, you didn’t tell the story, just told me the facts,” Enjolras pointed out, through a mouthful of breakfast. 

“ _To be fair_ , most of it is a blur - I was the god of wine, after all.” The god of wine and fertility, actually, but that seemed like a bit much to say out loud, in this moment. They were getting along - maybe for once, he wouldn’t ruin it immediately. In that spirit, he tried not to jump to conclusions about what Enjolras was thinking in response to that, especially when he didn’t say anything for a bit. 

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras requested eventually. “What you do remember, anyway. There must be some, or you wouldn’t remember having been a god at all.” 

“Well…” Grantaire considered it. “There were a lot of celebrations, parties. Orgies,” he winked at Enjolras, who blushed bright red. 

“Do you take nothing seriously?” Enjolras asked. 

“Hey, you asked,” Grantaire grinned at him, all teeth, and Enjolras’ blush grew more pronounced. 

“I suppose I did.” He looked away. 

  
  


They finished their breakfast in companionable silence. “So, are you ready to be back on the road?”

Enjolras made a face, but he threw his cup and sandwich wrapper out and nodded. “If we must.” 

“I mean..” they should really get going. “Wawa isn’t much, but we could hang out for a bit. Check out the famous goose statue.” 

Enjolras looked like he was considering it. “Are you sure? I know you want to meet up with your friends..” 

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Grantaire shrugged. “I called earlier, while I was gone, and it sounds like they’re having fun in Montreal. Gods know they could use the vacation, why not extend it for them?”

“Alright then,” Enjolras agreed. It would be nice to stretch his legs, take a moment to breathe. Maybe he’d stop feeling like he was on the run. 

With that decided, they went for a drive to survey the town. Honestly, there wasn’t much - Wawa was a small community, despite being the largest for hours around. Grantaire took Enjolras shopping at the Thrift Barn, and they stopped at the old-fashioned general store. The general store looked like a set piece from a bad movie about the wild west. There was a giant taxidermied moose standing outside of it. “Want to take a photo? It’s what all the tourists do,” Grantaire suggested. 

Enjolras made a face. “You must be joking.” 

“I never joke,” Grantaire lied with a huge grin on his face. “C’mon, it’s a tradition.” 

“Are we allowed to take photos?”

“We can, as long as we avoid making it into other peoples’,” Grantaire assured him. 

Enjolras frowned at the moose. 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Grantaire teased. “After everything you’ve done, taking a photo with the moose is where you draw the line?” 

“Shut up.” Enjolras strode over to the moose. “Take your stupid photo.” 

Grantaire grinned, and opened up the camera app on his flip phone, snapping a grainy image. 

“Perfect.” He ruffled Enjolras’ hair, and they headed inside. 

Right inside the front door was a giant wooden barrel filled with pickles. There were tongs balanced on the edge, and Grantaire’s grin grew even wider. “We need to get the pickles.”

“That’s so unsanitary,” Enjolras protested. 

“It’s tradition.” Grantaire held the tongs out to Enjolras. “You should do the honours.” 

Enjolras grimaced, but he gave in more readily than Grantaire had expected, and gingerly took the tongs, fishing out two pickles from the barrel. “Are you satisfied?”

“Never.” 

Despite all of Enjolras’ protesting at every turn, Grantaire got the feeling he was having fun - or at least, he was distracted enough from everything else to relax a little, even if only for a moment. Grantaire made sure to pick up some snacks for the road - a sign boasted of world-famous homemade fudge - and bought them both an ice cream cone. 

Of course, this being Northern Ontario, and it still being early in June, it was a little chilly to be eating ice cream outdoors, but they did their best anyway. 

“So this is called tiger tail?” Enjolras asked, looking at his bright orange and black striped ice cream. 

“It’ll sound weird and you won’t want to try it if I explain it,” Grantaire warned, “But you just gotta trust me, I think you’ll like it.” 

“I don’t know if I have that much faith in your taste,” Enjolras said lightly. 

“Just try,” Grantaire urged from across his own scoop of moon mist. 

Enjolras took a very tentative lick, and made a series of faces, from confused to pleased and back to confused again. “Is this.. Orange and licorice?”

“Yeah - but like, it’s good, right?” Grantaire pressed. 

“Despite every instinct,” Enjolras agreed, “I.. do kinda want to take another bite. Who came up with this?” He did, in fact, have some more of his ice cream. 

Grantaire grinned at him. “I have no idea, but it’s an Ontarian classic. And I figured - sweet and salty, what better for you, hm?” 

“Oh, you think you know me, do you?” Enjolras asked, but he was laughing.

“You do like it,” Grantaire pointed out with a grin. 

“What’s yours?” Enjolras asked - he hadn’t heard of that one, either. 

“Moon mist. Grape, banana and bubblegum.” 

“So, all sweet.” Enjolras made a face. “Yours sounds.. Weird. Not my thing,” he admitted. 

“Yeah, well. I’m salty enough I need the sweet to balance it out,” Grantaire laughed. 

They finished up their ice cream, a little faster once the wind picked up. 

“You’ve got a little..” 

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, who was gesturing at his face. Grantaire reached up to try to clean it up with a finger. “Did I get it?” 

“Not quite, more-” 

“There?” 

“No, just - let me-” Enjolras leaned in, and Grantaire’s heart nearly beat right out of his chest. With a gentle swipe of a finger, Enjolras cleaned the ice cream from the corner of Grantaire’s lips, and Grantaire swallowed, hard. 

“Uh - thanks.” Grantaire hoped he wasn’t blushing too obviously. 

“Yeah, no uh - no worries.” Enjolras blushed very obviously.

“So uh - back on the road, then?” Grantaire asked. It was mid-afternoon, so if they wanted to get anywhere by dark, they should probably get going. 

“Yeah,” Enjolras agreed, forlorn. “I suppose we’d better.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: non-explicit flashbacks in a nightmare to police violence and the resulting anxiety/panic attack, suicide ideation which is very much just joking but still technically present, I think that's it, it's all in the early scenes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no particular warnings for this one!

Enjolras had had a fun day, despite the circumstances. He’d been afraid that getting back in the car would erase the progress Grantaire and he had made, but it turned out that his fears had been in vain - they shared some of the fudge Grantaire had bought, and listened to the radio in companionable silence. It was a beautiful drive - before long, they were crossing what Grantaire informed him was a provincial park. Around an hour into their drive, Grantaire stopped. 

“What’s this..?” Enjolras asked. As far as he could tell, they were still in the middle of the massive park. In fact, they seemed to be at a trailhead. 

“Thought you might like this,” Grantaire told him. “It won’t take more than half an hour, this detour, but it’s pretty spectacular. And what’s the point driving all this way and not taking in some of the sights, right? We’ll make it to Sault Ste Marie in plenty of time.” 

With that very inadequate explanation, Enjolras watched Grantaire exit the car. Enjolras followed - Grantaire had done a good enough job showing him around Wawa, he figured he could trust him with whatever this was. 

The sign at the head of the trail informed Enjolras that they were at the Agawa Rock Pictographs. 

“Pictographs?” Enjolras asked, looking to Grantaire. It was a curious choice, he thought. Grantaire had always avoided talking about the past. Then again, that was his own past. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded. “They’ve been around for hundreds of thousands of years, maybe more. The Ojibwe made them.” 

Enjolras nodded as Grantaire continued. It was a fascinating story. Grantaire talked about how some people thought it was a spiritually meaningful place, but he added, “I’m not convinced, I guess? The people theorizing aren’t Ojibwe, and I don’t know how much consultation they did? Maybe the local people know, and no one is listening - so much of history is like that, dismissed because it’s stories, not science, or whatever.” Enjolras didn’t think he’d seen Grantaire so passionate before. “I bet these would be less of a mystery if we actually listened to the people whose ancestors made them, you know?” He led Enjolras down the path.

It really was beautiful, though. The trail was rocky, and eventually they reached a staircase of stone. It looked too much like a staircase to be natural, but too natural to be entirely manmade. It led deep into a narrow crevice between two cliffs. There were no pictographs yet - at the end, there was a wooden railing, looking out over Lake Superior. Enjolras paused for a moment. He’d never been one for the outdoors, admittedly. This sort of thing was new to him. Despite the fact that he had just sailed across the lake itself, seen its vastness first hand, somehow it was still just as majestic from this platform. The horizon was just blue, no end in sight to the water. The stone walls on either side really made the perspective, he supposed - to be in such a narrow space, with this massive lake ahead. He and Grantaire were standing shoulder to shoulder, forced to squeeze close enough to be touching. 

They were silent for a while as they looked out over Superior. Their fingers brushed, and without really thinking about it, Enjolras tangled them together and squeezed. Grantaire looked at him, surprised, and Enjolras just smiled, before looking back at the lake. Eventually, they moved on, but their hands remained locked together. 

They had to let go when they reached the staircase again, walking single file up the narrow pathway. They turned the other direction, continuing toward the actual pictographs. It was a short walk, and then they reached a rocky outcropping under another cliff. Grantaire kicked off his shoes, and Enjolras stared at him. 

“It’s easier,” Grantaire assured him. “Shoes slip more than feet if the waves splash up.” 

Enjolras frowned, but he carefully removed his shoes, choosing to trust Grantaire. 

They made their way onto the stone ledge, hand in hand, edging their way across. “Look.” Grantaire gestured with his free hand, and sure enough, on the rock wall beside them, figures in red stood out. Enjolras could hear the waves crashing behind them, and could feel the solid stone under his feet. He could feel Grantaire’s hand in his, and his own pulse rushing. He wondered if Grantaire could feel it too. 

  
  


Back on the road, the Mamma Mia soundtrack was playing. Grantaire was singing along - his voice was surprisingly good. Enjolras had his window open, and the wind from the highway felt amazing in his hair. They had stopped at a chip truck on the side of the road for supper, and should be arriving in Sault Ste Marie before long. Despite having travelled only a little more than 200km that day, they planned to stop for the night in a hotel there. 

“We made it a whole day without arguing,” Enjolras noted as they settled into their room for the night. It had been a good day, overall. He hadn’t had another panic attack - he’d been well and truly distracted, and even the hike had been well-timed to tire him out just before he could really start to start thinking too hard about it again. 

“Maybe there’s hope for us yet,” Grantaire joked. 

Enjolras claimed the bed further from the door, and collapsed onto it with a soft sigh. “What happens when we reach Montreal?” he asked. This road trip was an adventure, but he knew it had to end. 

Grantaire shrugged. “You’ll meet the others. You’ll pick their brains for a while, I’m sure. We’ll lay low in Montreal for a bit. We haven’t taken a job in a while, not all together anyway, so we’ll probably take some time to show you the ropes.”

“A job?” Enjolras asked. He didn’t think Grantaire had mentioned anything like that before. 

“Yeah, sometimes someone gets a hold of us, needs help with something. If we think it’s right for us, we take it. Get paid.” He sat down on the second bed, and turned the tv on. 

“What kind of help?” Enjolras asked, pressing for details Grantaire was usually loath to give him. 

“Usually the kind that would get a normal person killed,” Grantaire answered frankly. “Usually violent. We’re all fighters, in our own way.” 

“What side are you on?”

“Side?” Grantaire laughed. “Our own. There are no sides, Enjolras, life isn’t that simple. It’s not - there’s no good guys. We do what we think is right, because what else can we do? And that makes us heroes to some, villains to others. Sometimes even different things to each other - you should talk to Courfeyrac and Combeferre about that, sometime.” 

Enjolras frowned at that. He felt like this was probably gearing up to another fight, but - well, he couldn’t just let it go. 

“You can’t expect me to - to, what, fight? Kill? For you and your friends, just because I’m in this weird, fucked-up situation,” he insisted. “I’m not a soldier, I’m not - I’ve gotten into fights, sure, and sometimes protests turn bad, but I’m not a fighter like you are, I’m not like you!” 

“No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to,” Grantaire shrugged. “Look. I’m pretty much through with jobs anyway, so don’t worry your pretty head about it.” 

He looked upset, Enjolras noticed. “Why?” he asked. 

“Because - well, because nothing changes. And I’m tired of fighting and struggling and dying for something that will never make a difference, not in the grand scheme of things. What’s the point of it all?” He looked tired. “We haven’t taken a job in decades - the others do their own thing, I’ve hardly seen them. I just don’t see the point. We try to do good, and nothing comes of it but more suffering.” 

Enjolras shook his head. “So you’re giving up? How does that do any more good?”

“It doesn’t. But - hell, dying might not stick, but it still hurts. If humanity is going to drive itself into the ground with or without me fighting for it, I might as well save myself the pain.” 

Enjolras didn’t think he understood Grantaire at all. But he was tired. That was new, he noted. Well - not new, he was very used to being tired. He was rarely too tired to fight for what he believed in, but maybe, just maybe, under these extenuating circumstances, it was okay to just stop. Not permanently, but for tonight. Long enough to shower, and get some sleep. The world wouldn’t stop turning if he didn’t persuade Grantaire humanity was worth it tonight. Enjolras sighed, heavy, and he flopped back on the bed, closing his eyes. “I’m tired,” he said out loud. “Dibs on the shower first.” He gathered up a towel and some fresh clothes, and locked himself in the bathroom, leaving Grantaire alone. 

His mind wandered while he showered. It had been a nice day - he’d seen a side of Grantaire he wasn’t used to. Funny, stubborn (though that wasn’t new), insightful. Even their little hike had been nice, despite himself. He wondered what Grantaire had been like, younger, less worn down. There was something like passion there, hidden deep, Enjolras kept getting little glimpses of it. Except Grantaire insisted on stifling it every time, and Enjolras wished he could understand why. Of course Grantaire was old, ancient even. He’d probably seen a lot. But didn’t that just mean he’d seen how far they’d come? Sure, there was a long way to go, and sure, maybe that progress hadn’t been linear - but overall, when he’d been alive so long, how could he be missing the ways things were getting better? 

He thought about Grantaire, the way he’d grinned easily at Enjolras in that silly general store in Wawa. About the way he’d looked out at the lake from the lookout on the trail, the way he’d talked about the pictographs and the history. He thought about his hands, wrapped around the steering wheel, around their ice cream cones earlier in the day. About his eyes, the way they lit up when Enjolras agreed to pose for another stupid touristy photograph. 

He sighed when he realized he’d gotten distracted again. He washed the conditioner out of his hair, and rinsed the soap off of his body, and stepped out of the shower, drying off efficiently and pulling his clothes on. He left the towel wrapped around his hair, and mourned his hair care products once more. Maybe tomorrow they could do some more shopping, but for some essentials. He was also really starting to feel the days he’d spent off of his meds, and though today had been better than previous days for his anxiety, he also knew quitting them cold turkey wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t want to bring it up to Grantaire, though. It wasn’t that he thought it was shameful, it was just - well, it was awkward. It was personal. Grantaire had seen him having several panic attacks already, but it was still a thing he wasn’t sure he was ready to bring up with Grantaire. 

He washed his face, and the cold water helped him get his thoughts in order again. He dressed in stolen pyjamas, and headed back into the room. Grantaire was still there, sketching something on the hotel notepad. When Enjolras walked in, he looked up, and put the notepad in his pocket. “I’m hoping to reach Sudbury tomorrow,” he says. “But we should have time to do some exploring here tomorrow, if you like.” 

“That sounds nice,” Enjolras agreed. “You’re sure your friends don’t mind?”

“Nah,” Grantaire shrugged. “Feuilly hasn’t taken a break in forever, if I can slow down and make her take a holiday in Montreal, I will. And I’m sure Combeferre is having fun at the science museum, or something.” 

“Alright.” Enjolras picked out some clothes for the next day, and set them on the table beside his double bed. 

“Anyway. You said you’re tired. I’ll let you rest,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras nodded. 

“Are you going out again?” he asked. 

“Not tonight. Even I need to get some sleep.” 

Enjolras nodded again, and he pulled his blankets up, curling up in bed. He was unconscious before his head hit the pillow.


	8. Chapter 8

Grantaire slept fitfully. He’d never been good at sleeping, particularly, and it was harder still with Enjolras sleeping in the bed next to his own. On the one hand, he was glad for the extra time to be alone with him - he was sure that once they met up with the rest, Enjolras would gravitate to the ones he shared more in common with. But the more time he spent with Enjolras, the more he was certain that he was going to be absolutely fucked. He and Enjolras were no Courfeyrac and Combeferre, starting as enemies and learning to fall in love. And Enjolras was so young, besides all of that. An adult, of course, but Grantaire was ancient. What would Enjolras want with him? 

Grantaire dreamt of wine and of being wild, long ago. He saw Enjolras’ face, though, in every person he passed. It was hazy and strange, and when he was awoken once again by Enjolras’ shout, he was almost glad. 

“Easy,” Grantaire sat up and rubbed his eyes blearily, before walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed again. Enjolras was still asleep this time, thrashing under his covers. Grantaire spoke at a low register, trying to calm him down without waking him up. “Easy, Ange, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re with me.” 

It wasn’t working. Grantaire put a careful hand on Enjolras’ arm, and Enjolras bolted upright, lashing out and striking Grantaire square in the face before he really knew what was going on. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry-” 

“It’s alright.” Grantaire’s nose stopped bleeding almost immediately. “See? No harm done.” He wrapped his arms around Enjolras again. Enjolras was shaking. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated miserably. 

“Hush. Here.” He got up to fetch Enjolras a glass of water, and Enjolras made a seemingly involuntary whining noise when he did. “I’m not going anywhere. Drink.” 

Enjolras drank the water, and sniffled. “I hate this.” 

“I know.” Grantaire held him again. 

“Stay?”

“Of course.” As if Grantaire could refuse a vulnerable Enjolras anything. 

  
  


It wasn’t a surprise, this time, to wake with Enjolras clinging to him like a limpet. Grantaire carefully pried himself free, heart breaking just a little at the sad noise Enjolras made when he did. He didn’t go far, this time; the hotel had breakfast included, so he grabbed some fruit and some breakfast pastries, and a coffee for each of them, and returned to the room. 

Enjolras was still asleep this time, clutching his spare pillow for dear life. Grantaire smiled a little, and showered efficiently, making a mental list of the things they needed today. By the time he came back, Enjolras was rousing himself, rubbing his eyes. “Mph..” He came alive a little when he spotted breakfast and coffee. “You’ll have me used to getting my breakfast delivered,” Enjolras joked, dragging himself out of bed and picking out a coffee and a croissant. 

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Guess not.” Enjolras drained his coffee in one, and sat back on the end of the bed again. “Do we have a plan today?”

“Is there anything you need?” Grantaire asked, carefully. He remembered the panic attack in the diner, the nightly terrors. It was natural enough, of course, and might not mean anything, but he had gotten the impression that Enjolras had some experience dealing with that sort of thing in the diner, that he already had coping techniques. He didn’t want to ask outright, though - it wasn’t his business. “We’re in a proper city now - we can find a pharmacy, or a bigger store.” 

“How much money do we have?” Enjolras asked. 

“Oh, don’t worry about money,” Grantaire waved him off. “Combeferre manages most of that, there’s always enough.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras looked like that was an odd thought. 

“Is there something you need?” Grantaire pressed. 

“I-” Enjolras hesitated. “There was a medication I was on.” He didn’t say for what. “I probably shouldn’t just quit entirely..” 

“I’ll take you to a pharmacy,” Grantaire agreed. 

“It’s silly,” Enjolras added, “I know hotels have soap and stuff. But. I’d like to pick up some hair stuff, too, maybe?”

“It’s not silly at all,” Grantaire assured him. “I get wanting small comforts on the road.” 

Enjolras nodded, relieved. 

“We should be able to get that all done fairly quickly,” Grantaire said. “It’s Saturday - market day. We can pick up some food, too. Maybe stop at the museum.” 

“There’s a museum?” Enjolras asked. “How do you know so much, everywhere we go?”

“Eh, you pick stuff up,” Grantaire shrugged. “I spent a decade or so in Canada a while back, took a liking to the North Shore. Plus, Courfeyrac texted me suggestions,” he admitted. “Feuilly must have told him we’re taking our time.” There were some good ones on there - ones that didn’t exist when he was in the area last. 

“That’s nice of him.” 

They headed out once more. The stop at the pharmacy didn’t take long; Grantaire handed Enjolras some cash and let him handle the medication purchase, and then Enjolras found a handful of bottles in the hair aisle that Grantaire assumed were an approximation of what he would usually have used. Everyone had their own comfort things; for Grantaire, it was art. His doodles of Enjolras burned a hole in his pockets. For Enjolras, Grantaire assumed it was the routine associated with the hair stuff. Hopefully, with both that and his medications, things would start to improve for him. 

Their next stop was at the market. The market was housed in a little building near the river, a few huts outside for extra vendors. One of the outdoor vendors had a few instruments at his table, advertising lessons at the nearby school. Grantaire picked up a violin - he hadn’t played in a while, but some things you never forgot - and played a quick tune, before setting it back down. 

“I didn’t know you play,” Enjolras commented. 

“Ah, this and that,” Grantaire shrugged. “Live long enough and you pick up a surprising number of hobbies. Some stick better than others.” 

They picked up fresh sourdough bread, and jerky, and some cheese, for the road, and then headed for the museum. The museum was apparently just down the road, so they walked by the river in that direction. “Woah!” Enjolras pointed as a small bi-plane swooped down, skimming the surface of the water and taking off again. 

“Must be one of the bush planes,” Grantaire observed. He’d spent a summer fighting forest fires during his stint in Ontario - it had been exhilarating. 

“Does that mean there’s a fire nearby?” Enjolras fretted, looking around for signs of smoke. 

“Nah, I think they just practice around here,” Grantaire assured him. 

Before long, the museum itself came into view. The Bushplane Museum, it called itself in bold letters across the top, and a bright yellow plane sat on the lawn. 

Enjolras and Grantaire explored the museum for a while. They sat inside an airplane and watched a video about wildfires, and looked at retrieved wrecks. There was a portion of the museum dedicated, seemingly unrelatedly, to an insect zoo called Entomica. 

“Oh, Combeferre would fuckin’ love this,” Grantaire grinned. Enjolras kept his distance, looking inside somewhat dubiously. Grantaire continued, “I have to take some photos for him.” 

“I’ll wait here,” Enjolras said. 

“Aw, c’mon, you’re not scared, are you?” Grantaire teased. 

Grantaire sent a photo of Enjolras holding a stick insect to Combeferre on his flip phone twenty minutes later. 

  
  


They returned to the road around mid-day. It was a five hour drive to Sudbury. On the outskirts, they stopped at the mining museum, and took a selfie with the giant nickel. They had supper in town, and spent the rest of the day at the science centre. 

“Oh, you gotta try this.” The pair of them were standing on the fourth floor, staring at the gyroscope. 

“Absolutely I do not,” Enjolras shook his head. 

Grantaire let himself be strapped in instead, and spent his designated two minutes spinning in all sorts of directions. When he was released from the harness, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was grinning wide. It definitely wasn’t adorable. 

They built race cars a little further along, competing for nearly thirty minutes to build the better car. “There’s no way I’ll let you win,” Enjolras grinned at Grantaire, adding another wheel to his car. Enjolras did win, in the end, but Grantaire felt like a winner all the same when his own car was accidentally launched half-way across the room when a piece fell off. 

They took in a show in the science theatre, and met the flying squirrel. Enjolras was chosen from the audience to have the squirrel land on him, and he was delighted. “She’s so soft,” Enjolras enthused to Grantaire as they filed out of the theatre to take in more of the third floor. 

Grantaire took a photo of Enjolras with the moose antlers, and they watched the beaver play in his pond, and they watched the porcupine gnaw on a sweet potato. They watched an object theatre about space, and then it was time for the museum to close. 

“Is this what life is like for you?” Enjolras asked as they settled into their hotel room at the end of the day. “Travelling, and visiting new places, and doing new things? I never used to make time for stuff like this,” he admitted. “But it’s.. Nice. Actually.” 

“Yeah,” Grantaire shrugged. “I mean, not always. It’s also nice to settle down somewhere, sometimes - but you can’t stay in place for too long, or people start to notice.” 

“I always felt like I didn’t have time, but now..” 

“Now there’s all the time in the world,” Grantaire agreed. “An overabundance of time, even.” 

“Joly would have loved the science centre,” Enjolras said wistfully. 

“You must miss them a lot.” 

“Of course.” Enjolras looked down at his hands. “They’re my family.”

Grantaire wanted to tell Enjolras that maybe he could reach out, but he couldn’t promise it would be anytime soon - who could say how long the cops would be watching them? So he said nothing, and patted Enjolras’ shoulder instead. “Get some rest.” 

Another night brought another nightmare, of course, and once again Grantaire found himself sharing the bed with Enjolras, squeezed into a tiny double. It was becoming a habit, he mused, and he considered, in his last moments before sleep, just getting a room with one, bigger bed next time. 


End file.
